


Freckles and Lace

by guinevere_grey



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Barebacking, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Lingerie, M/M, Marius blushes and Courfeyrac teases, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-16 18:33:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/guinevere_grey/pseuds/guinevere_grey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'How do you want me to help you, love?' Courfeyrac presses, slipping one fingertip under the elastic on Marius’ thigh.<br/>'Ohhh,' Marius groans, shifting his hips a little. 'Help me—' he gulps in air—'help me do the garters. Please.'"</p><p>Marius wears lingerie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freckles and Lace

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emmaliza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaliza/gifts).



> Uh, what can I say, really?
> 
> Dedicated to Emma, who is my porn-soulmate and muse.

When Courfeyrac gets back from work, Marius is usually in one of three places. Most likely, he’s sitting at the kitchen counter, either typing frantically on a homework assignment or propping his cheek on one hand—which squashes his face adorably—while he wastes time on the internet. Sometimes he is sitting on the couch watching the old cop shows he grew up on. Sometimes, Courfeyrac will find him laid out on the rug with his laptop or a book, because no matter how much Courfeyrac entreats him to sprawl on the couch, instead, he insists he’s fine, and then Courfeyrac, of course, has to rub the knots out of his back and neck later.

Today, as Courfeyrac shuts the apartment door behind him, Marius is in none of these places. He wonders if Marius is taking a nap—poor boy was up most of the last two nights writing a paper he should have begun earlier—but he can see down the hallway and into the bedroom, and the bed is empty.

He drops his keys on the counter with a clatter, and it’s only then that he hears a muffled yelp from the bathroom.

“Marius?” Within seconds, Courfeyrac’s dropped his bag and crossed to the bathroom door. “Love? You all right?”

“Don’t come in!” Marius shrieks, and there’s the sound of Courfeyrac’s arsenal of hair products being knocked off the counter (living with Marius, it’s a familiar sound).

“Are you all right?” he repeats patiently, discreetly trying the handle. It’s locked. But, he realizes, the door itself isn’t latched—it’s an old, slightly off-kilter thing, and Marius is always forgetting the trick to shutting it all the way.

Fortunately for Marius, he doesn’t mind all that much when his roommate-turned-boyfriend invites himself into Marius’ showers, even if he blushes pink.

Fortunately for Courfeyrac, Marius looks lovely when he blushes.

“Don’t come in,” Marius says again, sounding whiny but also slightly strained. 

Courfeyrac frowns. Marius has a rather long history of not asking for help when he needs it, and who knows what’s going on in there? He hopes Marius hasn’t sliced his neck open trying to shave, again. That was an experience he’d rather not repeat.

Courfeyrac makes a decision. “I’m coming in,” he announces and pushes the door open. Marius squeals, and he only sees a blur of freckled skin in the mirror before Marius has thrown his weight against the door and pushed it almost closed again.

“Don’t come in!” he growls. “I’m not ready yet!”

And now Courfeyrac isn’t worried, but he is very,  _very_ interested.

“Don’t be silly,” he chuckles, not giving any ground. It’s a game now. “Come on, love, let me in.” And with the last word, he gives one good  _shove_. Marius shrieks again and his hands scrabble at the door, but it’s too late, Courfeyrac is stumbling forward and Marius is stumbling back and trying to regain his footing and

—for once, Courfeyrac is speechless.

The sheerest white fabric encases his legs, over calves and knees and ending halfway up Marius’ thighs in lacy bands, drooping a little on one side. Garters dangle unfastened from the white lace garter belt around Marius’ waist, just where the little dimples of his hipbones are.

There is underwear, too. Courfeyrac actually licks his lips at the sight: white lace briefs, stretched across Marius’s hips and the tops of his thighs, and Marius is already half-hard, he can see it through the lace, flushed even deeper than the rest of him, growing even harder under Courfeyrac’s gaze.

His face is bright red, and his arms are folded across his chest so Courfeyrac can barely see the white lace there, too, and he looks like he’s about three seconds away from panicking.

“You’re lovely,” Courfeyrac tells him, sincerely, but in the tone that makes Marius shiver.

“I don’t know how this thing works,” Marius bursts out defensively, gesturing at the garter belt. “And I could get this to—” He breaks off, moving his arms away from his chest a few inches so Courfeyrac can see the bralette hanging off his shoulders, two sheer white triangles with a tiny white ribbon bow between them.

“Turn around,” says Courfeyrac. Marius swallows visibly and obeys, and Courfeyrac admires the view for a moment, white seams running up the backs of Marius’ long, rather shapely legs, and his ass showcased in the lace, before stepping forward to fasten the clasp. He hooks his index fingers under the straps and draws them up and over Marius’ shoulders, playfully letting them snap into place, and Marius huffs a little at the sting. 

Marius’ breath catches, though, when Courfeyrac’s fingers skate lower to circle and thumb at his nipples through the lace. It feels soft on his fingertips but he knows to Marius the friction will scratch delightfully, and Marius doesn’t disappoint as Courfeyrac rolls his nipples between his fingers, letting out a little choked gasp. His hands grapple at Courfeyrac’s hips, gripping with desperation.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Courfeyrac tells Marius again, nosing his earlobe and pressing warm, wet, open-mouthed kisses to his neck. He drags his fingertips lower and smiles into Marius’ neck when they drift over the ticklish sides of his ribcage. “Putting on these things for me.”

One hand comes around to Marius’ stomach, splaying wide to tug him more firmly against Courfeyrac’s body, since he’s still tenser than Courfeyrac would prefer. The other hand drifts lower to trace the edge of the garter belt, the jut of Marius’ hipbone.

He hears Marius whimper, so low in his throat that he wouldn’t have heard it if his lips weren’t worshiping Marius’ neck, and he can look down over the flush, freckled expanse of his boyfriend’s torso to see the way his erection strains at the white lace confining it. Courfeyrac glides his palm down over Marius’ hip, seizing the dangling garter strap between his fingers and flicking it lightly against Marius’ thigh.

“Would you like me to help you?” he asks. Marius hates and loves being made to talk when they play these games, and sometimes Courfeyrac lets him stay silent, preferring to drive him to moans and gasps and shrieks, but today Marius’ nod isn’t enough. He pushes him that little bit he needs. “What do you want?”

Marius twists his head away. “ _Courf….”_

“How do you want me to help you, love?” Courfeyrac presses, slipping one fingertip under the elastic on Marius’ thigh.

“ _Ohhh_ ,” Marius groans, shifting his hips a little. “Help me—” he gulps in air—“help me do the garters. Please.”

To reward him, Courfeyrac introduces teeth to the kiss he’s sucking into Marius’ neck and palms his erection through the lace briefs, clinging and practically transparent in one spot where Marius is leaking. Marius’ fingers tighten on his hips and he groans again, full-throated and loud, which will embarrass him later but pleases Courfeyrac immensely.

He takes his hand away from Marius’ weeping cock, rests it on his hip. “Take off the underwear,” he murmurs against his neck.

“Wh-what?” Marius gasps out, hips twitching forward into the lace. Courfeyrac brings two fingers up to tilt his jaw toward him kiss him sweetly, deeply.

“The underwear first,” he says, pulling back once he’s deemed Marius is likely to be satisfactorily breathless. Marius’ head is lolling against his shoulder, lips swollen and red as he looks up at him. Courfeyrac cannot resist one more kiss to those lips. “Then I’ll fasten the garters,” he promises after pulling back. Lacing his voice with insinuation, he adds, “You can keep them on the  _whole_  time.” He savors the way Marius’ eyes fall shut, the way he shudders against him.

Marius turns his face against Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and from this angle Courfeyrac sees his ridiculously long eyelashes drop as he squeezes his eyes shut, and below that, the fierce pink in his cheeks: caught, evidently, somewhere between his embarrassment and arousal. Courfeyrac smiles when Marius’ hands come up to flutter uncertainly at his hips. He presses his face a little closer into Courfeyrac’s neck, and suddenly Courfeyrac realizes why. With his chin hooked over Marius’ shoulder like this, vision obscured by curves of freckled skin and loose red-brown curls, he’s forgotten about the mirror.

Courfeyrac isn’t about to waste  _that_  opportunity. He maneuvers them sideways, one hand guiding Marius’ hip and the other still braced over his stomach. Now they are both facing the mirror, and Courfeyrac’s eyes are wide, taking in all of Marius at once, the whole flushed, freckled expanse of him, the sloping lines of his body transversed by sheer white lace. For a moment, Courfeyrac forgets everything except how lovely Marius is, how absolutely wonderful, dressed up like this, waiting for him. Marius’ soft whine brings him back, calling Courfeyrac’s attention to the rigid tendons in Marius’ neck as he tries to burrow into the Courfeyrac’s shoulder, his hands dropping away from his hips.

“Look.” Courfeyrac cups his jaw, gently nudges him to face forward. “Look how lovely you are for me.”

“ _Courf_ ,” Marius whimpers. He doesn’t open his eyes.

Courfeyrac captures his earlobe with his teeth and tugs, gently, flicking it with his tongue. “I love you,” he purrs encouragingly, sincerely. Marius licks his lips and grins a bit, despite himself, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

So Courfeyrac, smiling fondly, brings the hand at Marius’ stomach around, fingers sliding down, under the waistband to stroke over Marius’ entrance. And, with a jolt and a gasp, Marius’ eyes finally fly open to meet Courfeyrac’s, blown wide in the mirror.

He presses in, teasingly, not enough to penetrate. “Beautiful slut,” he says softly. “I can’t fuck you while you’re still wearing these.” Marius’ hips roll back, and then twitch forward, the pink in his cheeks blown to full red, but his hands are seizing clumsily into the lace on his hips.

“I’m not a slut,” he says crossly, though his panting somewhat mitigates the intended affect. Courfeyrac only smiles and hums, slipping his hand out, bringing both hands around to circle and thumb at Marius’ nipples. He tells himself it is encouragement for poor Marius, a distraction for his poor sweet boyfriend tries tugging down the flimsy lace covering to expose himself fully, but he can’t help the delight he feels at Marius’s resulting moan.

“ _My_ slut,” he whispers tenderly, kissing Marius’ neck, taking mercy on him and helping him with the panties, which have somehow twisted up around the tops of his thighs. When the crumpled white lace falls to the floor, Courfeyrac straightens, taking special care to tug up on the lace bands circling Marius’ thighs. Not that the stockings needed adjusting, really, but it makes Marius’ breath catch charmingly. And Marius is so very charming like this, gulping for breath, practically vibrating with against Courfeyrac’s chest, flushed everywhere, but especially his cheeks and his erection, red and swollen and standing out obscenely between the dangling garter straps.

Courfeyrac decides to take care of that immediately. The garters, that is. Sliding his palms over Marius’ hips, he bypasses Marius’ cock and avoids the whimper he tries to stifle—poor thing will have to wait a bit longer for Courfeyrac to see to that. Seizing the tiny clips between thumbs and forefingers, he manages to fasten each front one to the top of its respective stocking rather neatly, feeling a smug pang of satisfaction at his own sartorial skills. A moment more to slide his hands around to Marius’ rather generous arse, squeezing gently before fastening each back garter, one at a time. He takes a moment to admire the effect: the ribbons stretched taut across Marius’ thighs, white satin against freckles, the garter straps tugging slightly at the lace of the stockings.

“Perfect,” says Courfeyrac, and means it. He plucks lube from the middle drawer and feels a bit smug as Marius, in response, stiffens. “Now, darling, let’s get you somewhere more comfortable.”

Marius probably expects Courfeyrac to take him to their bedroom, but Courfeyrac slips one hand dangerously low on his back—well, to be honest, most of his fingers aren’t even in back territory anymore—and guides him towards the living room instead.

“What are you—Courfeyrac?” Marius begins, panicked, even though the door is deadlocked and the curtains are firmly shut. Courfeyrac only smiles and tosses the lube to the other end of the couch—a dark leather monstrosity inherited from Bahorel, deep and cushy, wide in a way that invites the splay of two bodies.

Courfeyrac sweeps Marius up into his arms and nuzzles behind his ear, delighting in the way Marius gives a little outrage gasp while simultaneously clutching at his shoulders. “Don’t worry, I’m still going to ravish you,” he promises, and tosses Marius onto the couch.

He’s so delicious sprawled there that Courfeyrac has to take a moment to appreciate the view: long not-quite-gangly freckled limbs freckled and blushing pink, made absolutely obscene by his sheer white lingerie, a farce of innocence. The lace cups of the bralette can’t conceal Marius’ dark, erect nipples, begging for attention, and the stockings sheathing his long legs before snapping to the garter belt only draw more attention to the way Marius lets his legs fall open wider, hips twitching up, an invitation Courfeyrac finds he can no longer resist.

When Marius softly whines his name and, hesitantly, crosses his wrists over his head, Courfeyrac smiles benevolently and strips off his own clothing. Courfeyrac falls forward into the cradle of Marius’ hips and, when Marius’ thighs instinctively lift around his hips, rewards his sweet boy by thumbing his nipples. Surely the lace must scratch, tender as Marius is, but, little slut that he is, Marius only gasps and arches up into the friction.

Abruptly, Courfeyrac sits up and tugs Marius after him, and he barely has time to whimper before Courfeyrac has settled them again, sitting up with Marius straddling his lap.

“Now, aren’t you glad I made you take your panties off?” Courfeyrac asks, bucking his hips slightly to tease Marius’ entrance with his cock.

“Oh god,” Marius moans, twining his arms around Courfeyrac’s neck and burying his face beneath his jaw. His hot breath comes in little pants, and his lips move, like he’s mumbling something.

“What was that, darling?”

“Please, Courfeyrac.”

“Please…” Courfeyrac prompts. He has already retrieved the lube and quietly slicked three fingers, but Marius, trying to grind his hips down, is apparently too far gone to notice. Courfeyrac draws one wet fingertip over his hole. Marius shudders. “Tell me what you want, Marius, sweet one.”

“Please—stretch me with your fingers,” Marius whispers, muffled against his neck.

“Precious little slut,” Courfeyrac says fondly. Marius has learned his lessons well, and he rewards him with the easy glide of one finger. It’s a small incentive, really, not nearly enough for his greedy boy, and Marius soon makes this clear, curling tighter around Courfeyrac and letting out a little string of whimpers against his neck. He tries to rub his hard cock against Courfeyrac’s stomach, desperate for friction, but Courfeyrac smacks him sharply on one arse cheek.

“Words, Marius,” he reminds him, and Marius whispers,  _“more.”_

“I know you’re impatient, darling, but  _manners_ ,” Courfeyrac reminds him, but doesn’t wait for Marius’ gasped “ _please!”_ before plunging another finger in alongside the first, as deeply as he can manage. Marius’ groan is one of pure hunger, and his fingernails dig into Courfeyrac’s shoulders as he twists his fingers, slowly sliding them out, only to thrust harshly back in and then curl them to stroke methodically over the nub that never fails to make Marius shudder against him.

He can’t even muffle his moans now, whimpering hungrily against Courfeyrac’s neck, occasionally clamping down with his teeth.

“Needy thing,” Courfeyrac tells him. “You still need more, don’t you?” He thrusts three fingers into Marius’ grasping hole without making him ask for it.

Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s going to make this easy.

“Thank me,” he whispers to Marius, stretching his fingers as wide as they will go, resting his other hand on top of Marius’ thigh to snap the tempting white garter against his skin.

“Oh—thank you— _god,_ Courf—please, thank you, please,  _please—”_

Courfeyrac pulls out.

Marius gasps, pushes himself upright and crushes his mouth against Courfeyrac’s, pleading sloppily with lips and tongue. Courfeyrac, taken aback and slightly amused, gently kisses back, swallowing Marius’ little cries and  _pleases_  and  _Courfs_. He tastes salt and realizes Marius is desperate enough to shed tears.

The poor thing can’t ask for what he so obviously needs. He gently presses him back, just as Marius sobs quietly. “What do you want, darling?” he asks softly, tracing Marius’ swollen lips with one finger, dragging the three wet fingers of his other hand over the lace edge of a stocking.

“I want—I want you to fuck me,” Marius whispers. “With your cock. Please, Courfeyrac.”

“Oh, dearest,” Courfeyrac sighs, already reaching to slick his cock, grasping Marius’ erection in a loose fist so that he chokes and thrusts up. “You ask so prettily that we’re going to do something even better.” He waits for Marius’ whimper before continuing. “You’re so desperate that I’m going to let you fuck yourself on me.”

All it takes is one hand braced on Marius’ hips to guide him, the other guiding his own cock into place, and then Marius is easing himself down with resolute exertion that surprises even Courfeyrac, almost mewling as he’s forced wide open. He takes a moment to breathe, mouth gaping and quivering like he wants to start crying, but he grips Courfeyrac’s shoulders tighter and drags himself up so only the tip of Courfeyrac’s cock is still inside him before pressing down again, rolling his hips in a way that makes him cry out.

The sight is just as good as the sensation: the muscles in Marius’ throat working as he lets his head fall back, the tendons in his thighs straining to fuck himself up and down. Courfeyrac praises him, tells him he’s beautiful, tells him he loves him like this, dressed up like a wanton and desperate for Courfeyrac’s cock, filling him, stretching him. He touches him, idly: pinching a nipple, scoring fingernail lines into his hips, tracing the edges of the lingerie wherever it goes to remind Marius of how deliciously shameful he looks.

But he doesn’t touch Marius where he most wants it.

“Poor thing,” Courfeyrac sighs as Marius becomes even more desperate, thrusting himself down harshly, already beginning to quiver with the exertion. He’s clearly exhausted, the thrusts slower, weaker. Marius tries to keep going as best he can, rolling his hips when he bottoms out, face flushed hot and tears spilling down his cheeks. “Poor desperate thing.”

“Courf,” Marius gasps, whimpers. “Please touch me, I need—I can’t—“

“Hush,” Courfeyrac says soothingly but firmly, stroking his trembling thigh through white lace. “I’m not going to touch your cock, sweet one.”

Marius sobs quietly, halfheartedly trying to touch himself, but Courfeyrac captures his wrists and holds them behind his back. “Oh Marius, you’ve worn yourself out, haven’t you? My poor wretched slut, too tired to fuck yourself until you come on my cock.”

Marius twists in his grip, letting his head fall forward against Courfeyrac’s chest. He presses his lips along Courfeyrac’s collarbone feverishly as he tries bravely to keep moving. “Please, Courfeyrac, help me come, _please!”_

Courfeyrac smiles. “Of course, darling.”

When Courfeyrac grasps Marius’ hips in firm hands, he probably does not expect him to lift him up and off his cock. They both gasp at the sensation: Courfeyrac supposes Marius must feel cruelly empty, and that thought, coupled with Marius’ drawn-out, painful whine, makes him want to push back in, but he intends to satisfy Marius as well as he can. He does have the boy’s best interests at heart. 

“Shhh,” he says, pressing him back and to his feet until they can both stand, Marius sagging against his chest, teary-eyed, as his knees quake. “Trust me, love,” he says, cupping Marius’ face in his hands and kissing him to taste his tears. Marius licks feverishly into his mouth, and Courfeyrac, reminded of how very  _oral_  Marius is, and how delightful he looks when his mouth is filled and stretched wide, almost regrets the established plan.

But not enough to deviate from it. After all, he promised Marius he would come on his cock, and while inducing him to come with Courfeyrac’s cock in his mouth might fulfill the letter of the promise, but not the spirit, and Courfeyrac, having passed his bar examinations, is mindful of such things. Even when Marius’ whimpers are echoing into his mouth.

It’s a matter of moments to steer Marius backwards and around the couch, savoring the glide of tongue against tongue for one last moment before breaking the kiss to turn Marius around. The back of the couch is nearly at a height with Marius’ hips. In fact, when Courfeyrac prods Marius to spread his feet wider, his hips are perfectly aligned with the couch, and Courfeyrac has been waiting for the perfect opportunity to take advantage of that fact.

One hand pressed firmly between Marius’ shoulderblades, right over the clasp of the bra, Courfeyrac eases Marius down until he’s bent over the back of the couch, and Marius’ palms automatically fall to brace himself on the couch seat. His hips are already jerking forward into the friction, poor thing, and he hasn’t stopped making hungry noises in the back of his throat, biting his bottom lip in a fierce attempt to quiet himself. Courfeyrac rests his hand on the small of his back, absentmindedly running his fingers over the garter belt and admiring the way Marius tries to spread himself wider, the garter straps bisecting each freckled arse cheek and framing his red, gaping hole. The sight is almost too much to resist.

“ _Courf,”_ Marius whispers after the barest few seconds, rubbing his flushed cheek against the cool leather of the couch. Courfeyrac smiles, uses his thumbs to spread Marius even wider, and thrusts in.

It’s deep, so deep this way, and Marius lets out an almost-agonized cry that would have stayed Courfeyrac’s movements if he didn’t know his greedy darling so well. Instead, he buries himself deeper on his next thrust, pushing another shocked whimper out of Marius. He’s already so sensitive, so wanton, but Courfeyrac isn’t satisfied, adjusting his hips to a different angle, and when Marius shrieks and his spine tenses even tighter, he knows he’s found the right one.

“Go ahead, darling,” Courfeyrac tells him, refusing to slow down or speed up, keeping the same relentless, steady pace. He slips a finger under one garter strap, running it up and down to remind Marius of how shameful, how lovely he looks. “You’ve done so well. Come for me, sweet one.”  Marius shudders and falls apart: bucking back against Courfeyrac, hands scrabbling and trying to clench into the leather, tossing his head and keening loudly, nearly wordless, even as his lips try to shape words.

Courfeyrac fucks him through his orgasm, wrapping his hands around Marius’ chest to tease over the lace one more time. The sight of Marius underneath him, bent over the couch, quivering with aftershocks, face red and wet with tears, is enough for him to spend himself, biting at Marius’ freckled shoulderblade and groaning out his release.

Marius is still trembling when his vision clears, thighs taut and shaking and no doubt exhausted. Courfeyrac pulls him against his chest. “So beautiful,” he tells him against his ear, “so beautiful for me.” Marius doesn’t seem inclined to do much more than sag against him, so he gently guides them to kneel facing the couch, still connected, with Marius spread over his thighs. With a quiet whimper, Marius lets his head fall forward against the couch back. Courfeyrac holds him, murmuring nonsense in between the kisses he peppers over his shoulders, trying to kiss each and every freckle he can see.

He can tell the moment when Marius finally feels the sticky awkwardness of the situation because his neck blushes red again.

A more merciful individual wouldn’t tease, would kindly soothe his lover’s blushes away.

But Courfeyrac is merciful and kind in his own way, because he always knows what Marius wants. He rests his chin on Marius’ shoulder.

“Next time,” he croons, “I’ll let you come in the underwear.” 


End file.
